


close encounters of the third kind

by nevergreen



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: M/M, References to Drugs, They're Having Fun, mr.robot might or might not be real
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:08:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24726502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nevergreen/pseuds/nevergreen
Summary: starlight, star brightevery night you're dimmer, have you finally fell?
Relationships: Elliot Alderson/Mr. Robot
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	close encounters of the third kind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lemon_demon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemon_demon/gifts).



He’s so fucking bad at driving, no matter what he says. They go at the full speed on the almost empty road, the car gets skidded left and right, everything is clattering, he swears profoundly, maneuvering around the things only he can see. The car jolts on a bump and Elliot bumps his head to the ceiling with a loud thump, his skull is ringing with pain. 

The backseat is slashed crosswise, burned out holes here and there. Elliot pushes his palm to the stained window. It’s getting dark, soon he won’t be able to remember the way back. The insides of the car smell like ash and mold. 

“You’re fucking psycho,” Elliot’s voice is flat, and he doesn’t look at him, it’s an encouragement, everything is these days. “And you’re driving like one.”  
“Buckle up, kid, and quit whining or I might think you’re actually jealous.”

“Jealous of what? You can’t do anything that I can’t.”

“Right, but I have the balls to try at least. Now buckle up if you don’t want me tying you to the bloody seat myself,” he’s grinning, Elliot doesn’t need to look at him to know. There are hands on the steering wheel, gripping it to the white knuckles. Elliot hates when he does that show-off shitty show for him and him alone.  
“I’d like to see you try. Your hands are occupied.”

He laughs, it’s deep and short, and resonates with the pain still throbbing in the temples; then he frees one hand, shakes it and pats Elliot on the head, quickly, then smashes all the buttons on the car radio at once before gripping the wheel again.

“There’s no belt!” Elliot yells at him, but there is already too loud for him to be heard, and he doesn't listen to Elliot as well, he just shakes his head with the eyes closed, and sings along, _I hear what you say, I see what you do_ , he’s clearly having too much fun and Elliot just flattens himself against the seat, because he’s fucking impossible to deal with, when he’s having fun. _I know everything, I need to know about you_ , and Elliot breathes out “just slow down,” knowing it’s not going to do anything. 

Mr. Robot hangs out of the window, one hand on the wheel, other is holding the cap on his head – and shouts _you wanna be my lover_ in the cold midnight air, his voice is gruff and loud. _Keep shouting like this and you won’t be able to speak tomorrow_ , Elliot wants to say and immediately swallows it back. He pats down all his pockets instead, searching for something to smoke, anything, and there’s nothing, as always. Every time they’re together ends with Elliot left with the pockets empty and head full. His throat hurts already, and he wants to smooth it down with anything, really – but apparently he robbed Elliot of everything again.

He slides down the seat, slumping deeper in his hoodie and closing his eyes. The car bounces to the ABBA, and, being honest, that’s not the worst midnight he’s having. As long as he’s not killed in the accident.

///  
They end up leaving the car in a poorly lit, shabby alley – it’s nothing, they stole it anyway, probably doing a favor to the owner. There’s the cinema in the block and he takes out the cash stolen from Elliot before, buys them tickets to the Spielberg marathon, leaving the cashier girl staring at the money, and they sneak at the back door. There are two or three seats taken, and the entire last row is empty. 

He slumps down the seat in the middle, and motions with the hand, then patting the seat at his right. Elliot steps forward, and all the seats are pushing his arm pads and backs at him, grabbing his lanky limbs, slowing him down. _Stop_ , Elliot shushes at them. By the time Elliot’s at the seat, he passes him the joint and the lighter.  
“Can’t we get high at home?” Elliot asks, snapping the tiny flicker and drawing down. “You dragged me through half the city to huff a puff and watch, what, Close Encounters of the Third Kind?”

“Remember watching this movie before?”  
Elliot closes his eyes, waiting for his head to respond with the usual lightness, dizziness, warmth. Only when he feels it, five minutes later, he says “I do”, his voice is lenient. “It was my favourite.”

“And that’s why you’re here.”

Elliot licks his lips, every small movement is precious and faintly pleasant. “You seriously want me to believe this?”  
“Watch the movie, kiddo,” he pats Elliot’s hand and takes away the lighter. There’s nothing new to it, his hands are warm, Elliot hears people whispering few rows ahead of them. His lips and fingers are itching slightly, and a shabby seat feels like home. 

“Did he like the movie too?”  
“Yes.”  
“Did you ever get high together?”  
“What? No,” Elliot frowns. “I was just a kid.”  
“So I already did for you more than him. You owe me, Elliot.”

“You can’t fool us by agreeing with us,” says poorly lit, unkempt and forever puzzled Roy Neary, looking Elliot in the eyes from the screen. Elliot meets his gaze and thinks out loud, he doesn’t register what exactly, but his lips are in the shape of _noooo_ , long and soft, there are countless people he fooled just like that.  
“You’re a nasty boy, Elliot.”  
“You’re fucking creepy.”

He takes off his cap, basking in the sweet milky puff of smoke, and laughs instead of answering. He’s high, too, and it makes him even less trustworthy than usual. Elliot touches his own face with the tips of fingers, slightly, cups his own cheek with the palm and sighs. The movie is utterly ridiculous, he knows it word by word, and the urge to nestle his head somewhere is overwhelming, so he nuzzles the head against the coarse fabric of the jacket and closes his eyes again. They’re slightly wet.

“Are you going to cry on my shoulder like a five year old girl who got kicked from the playground?”  
“Fuck you, man,” Elliot whispers, and there are faces behind his closed lids. “You don’t even know what it feels like, you only acting.”  
“Are you that high?” he slightly lifts Elliot’s face, wet from tears and sweat.  
“A little,” Elliot admits. “I hate it.”  
“What?”  
“Being alone.”  
“You’re with me. Besides, are you really able to be with someone else? Anyone else?”

The mothership lands near the Devil’s Tower, and Elliot’s landing his lips on the warm face, drawing the line on the stubbly cheek before he finds his narrow, stiff mouth. Every touch feels like a full-body hug. Elliot kisses him until he answers back, fleeting, then deepening, his fingers are down, they’re on Elliot’s shoulder, firm, keeping him there.  
“You’re sliding down,” he takes Elliot’s hand, and there is a slight pain when the skin is burned slightly by a stub that’s fallen out of his mouth. “You’re a bloody mess, kiddo.”

“You’re not going to drive again.”  
“You’re not going to hear my opinion on the movie then.”  
Elliot slumps back on his seat. “I don’t need your opinions.” 

He falls asleep anyway in an instant. It’s fast, he slides down the slope, the smoky haze, he doesn’t even dream, it’s always like this with him. _Don’t touch me_ , Elliot asks with a question in his voice. He’s not surprised with the answer.  
He’s surprised when he opens his eyes at home.

It’s midday, and the sun warms down his kitchen. He sits there, in the sunlight.  
“The movie is a piece of shit,” he says.  
He’s so fucking good at lying, it’s ridiculous, much better than at anything else.


End file.
